A Mess of Colors
by SirVacuumThe3rd
Summary: So what if Sherlock thinks differently than the rest of the world? He already knew that. But just how different can he be? Seeing this many colors shouldn't be normal.


Sherlock didn't like talking about it. In fact, he didn't talk about it at all. Period. It just wasn't something he wanted to share or was ever going to. Only he and Mycroft knew, and Mycroft kept it quiet because he knew he wouldn't be able to call in a favor from Sherlock if he leaked it.

So it was never mentioned, and Sherlock had no problem with that. He didn't need another thing added to the list of his 'defects'. He worked with it.

* * *

He had had it all his life, not that he knew he was different at first.

_Synesthesia._

He had first learned about it when he was five, already knowing he was different from the rest of the kids his age. Sure, he was smarter than them, but not only in the way both he and Mycroft were. He would get in trouble if the teacher asked what five and six made and he would yell out yellow.

And if someone asked how to spell something, they would look at him funny when he would say that the word was a certain color, or a certain sound.

Sherlock would go home, each night wondering what was wrong with him. Why did no one else see it his way? Why could no one else see the colors and sounds every word, letter, thought, and number made? Why was 'Sherlock' a deep indigo blue, yet 'Mycroft' a crisp silver? He didn't know other people didn't think that way. Mycroft sure didn't.

He kept his mouth shut, slowly drawing back even farther socially. He read his books, did work, became the genius he is now. He learned what it was he had.

_Synesthesia._

One word. That one tiny word that barely anyone had ever heard of and he had it. It made him who he is. He learned more about it, how it was where a stimulation of one cognitive path stimulated another automatically. Which meant if he saw a letter, there was a color for it. A word, another color. Sometimes they had sounds, sometimes they didn't. All he knew was that the world he saw was different then everyone else's.

He was fine with that, he became the only consulting detective in the world; his own creation. He excelled at what he did, the colors flashing across his vision for an instant, the answer to a case clicking suddenly in his mind. He got along, no one ever suspected a thing. He lived alone, no one to hear his constant mutterings or ranting when he would unconsciously slip from yelling words to yelling colors at the walls.

Until John came along.

* * *

John was a maroon color, solid and strong yet comforting to Sherlock. If he ever felt a bit off, he would whisper John's name and see the deep color, relief spreading through him instantly.

John didn't suspect much at first, Sherlock mumbling to himself or pulling all nighters with his microscope and chemicals was unusual, but he got used to it. Sherlock didn't let John see, careful to watch what he said, not wanting John to see his 'helping defect', as he called it. He already didn't sleep or eat enough, he didn't need to add 'seeing words or thoughts as colors' to John's list of why he should move out and leave him.

So he was careful the first few months, letting himself slip into yelling colors only when John was out of the flat or only writing in colored pencil smudges and shapes that could spell out anything or make any equation when John couldn't see his notebook.

He was cautious, but he was bound to slip up sooner or later.

* * *

After almost a year had passed with him and John sharing a flat, Sherlock grew comfortable. He hadn't ever slipped up, and he decided he didn't need to be _as_ careful as he was. How he regretted that.

One day, John had come into the flat while Sherlock was testing acid in the kitchen under the microscope.

"I'm home." John said, taking off his coat.

Sherlock was quiet, jotting notes down without looking and fiddling with his microscope. John sighed, watching his flatmate engrossed by his experiment.

"I want some tea. Do you want some?" John asked, wandering into the kitchen and looking for the kettle. He couldn't see it on the counter, and it wasn't in the cupboards. He spun around, looking for the lost kettle, a look of confusion on his face.

"Sherlock, have you seen the kettle?" John asked, turning around to face him.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, not looking up. John sighed.

"Where is it?"

"Red." Sherlock replied, scribbling more notes as he looked in the microscope.

"Red?" John asked confusedly, stopping to look at his flatmate.

"Yes, John. Left." Sherlock said, annoyed. "You know I don't like repeating myself."

"But you didn't-" John stopped and shook his head. "Never mind."

He scooped up the kettle from floor on the left side of Sherlock, starting to make their tea and forgetting all about the incident.

Sherlock on the other hand, had not.

_Why have I done such a stupid thing?!_ Sherlock thought to himself. _I'm lucky he didn't get it. A slip like that isn't good. I don't need him to think less of me because my head isn't screwed on straight. I don't need that. I don't need his pity._

He breathed out, closing his eyes and rubbing his face tiredly.

_This is going to be interesting._

* * *

After that, Sherlock kept a close watch on what he was saying. He would think everything through before saying them, or not say anything at all. Conversations were clipped as usual, and if John noticed anything different he didn't let on. But even Sherlock couldn't watch his thoughts and his mouth all the time.

Three weeks.

Three weeks was how long Sherlock had been awake. It had been case after case after case. His brain was feeling overworked and cluttered from him not organizing his palace during the weeks. His transport felt worn out, ready to drop at any point. All in all, he needed to recharge. Which was horrible for him, because that meant he had to sleep, which was utterly boring and impossible because he wouldn't be able to sleep until tomorrow, when he and John were let back into the flat after the CDC sanitized and cleaned it due to his experiment with deadly bacteria.

That meant he was running on empty for longer, which made him _that_ much more likely to slip up.

"Sherlock." John said, sitting down next to him on the bench. "I need the CDC's number, I wanna see if we can go back home early. I assume you know it?"

Sherlock put down his book, and stared ahead of him, the numbers and the colors appearing clearly in his vision. He started reading them off as John typed them into his mobile.

"202-245-blue red yellow blue." Sherlock said, going back to his book.

John watched him quietly read his book for a moment as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Had Sherlock just given him a half a phone number in _colors? _What did that mean? He was puzzled, trying to think of what might make Sherlock say that.

"Sherlock?" He asked calmly, watching him slowly. "Are you alright? When was the last time you slept?"

"I'm fine." He said annoyingly, not looking up. "Three weeks ago. Why?"

"I think you need some more." John said, concerned for him.

Sherlock laughed. "You always think that."

"Yeah, but you don't normally stop saying numbers and starting saying colors in the middle of a sentence. Are you sure you're okay?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he stopped reading, his face dropping immediately. "Yes, yes." He said quickly, shutting his book and looking anywhere but John. "I haven't slept in awhile and I think the bacteria experiment got to me." He said, flustered as he got up. "I'm going for a walk. Don't wait up."

"Sherl-" John started, but Sherlock was already half way down the block with his coat billowing out behind him. He frowned, trying not to be worried.

_I've let it slip again._ Sherlock thought nervously, angry at himself for being such an idiot again. _What the hell?! I can't even list a __**phone number**__ without listing colors! I should just stop talking all together, save myself from the inevitable. But that would be torture. My only other option is that I could instead just... __**tell **__John what I have. But that's stupid! He won't understand at all! It's not like I'm not weird enough already! But, he might. He's stayed with me this long. He should be able to understand this, it's not too different. I should just tell him, then throw myself off a bridge when he takes me to a mental hospital._

* * *

John walked back to the flat, knowing Sherlock wouldn't be back for awhile. He had gotten the all clear from the CDC, they had sanitized the entire flat and left with a warning to Sherlock and a threat to John if he didn't keep Sherlock in line. Needless to say, he was going to be keeping a closer eye on Sherlock's experiments.

He sighed, he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately, as he sat down in his armchair and glanced around the flat. Mostly everything was in its place, some objects were moved during the clean up, some moving across the room.

He picked up a notebook he had never seen from the floor in front of him. He looked it over, not noting anything particular about it. He put his hand on the smooth black cover and opened to the first page slowly.

"What the..." He whispered, a page full of random scribbles and shapes of different colors spreading out beneath his finger tips.

He traced the shapes, some he knew, others he didn't, and some that he wasn't even sure _were_ shapes. He was mesmerized by all of the different colors; blues, pinks, reds, oranges, any and every color imagined. He flipped the page, the same mess of colors and shapes appearing, yet they were different. They were _different_ shapes and colors in different places, each neatly drawn in the lines and spaced apart.

_It's like they're words._ John thought to himself, still gazing at the pages.

He was amazed at the thought, looking at the shapes as if they could be words. He looked at the first line, seeing a yellow triangle, blue rhombus, a purple shape, and finally an orange dash. He traced them, seeing how they could be words in a sentence, how they might make sense.

_It's like the shape and color show the word, and all of them together make a logical sentence... That's brilliant._

He flipped through a few more pages, all the same style of writing. He didn't know how long he sat there, the book in his hands as he was captured by it's beauty. He never felt like putting it down, wanting to see every page, find out how it worked, what it said.

_It has to be Sherlock's._ He thought, looking at the book. _It's the only way. It's not mine, and it can be anyone else's. It's amazing and brilliant, no wonder it's his. Where has he been keeping it? I've never seen it._

He smiled slightly, his wonder still going through him at the book. He didn't hear the steps up to the flat, nor the door opening.

"John?"

John looked up to see a stricken looking Sherlock staring at the notebook in his hands.

"Is this yours?" He asked, standing up and holding it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock gulped, his hands sweating and his face pale. "Yes." He said quietly as he looked at John, waiting for the anger, confusion, the slamming door and packed bags.

_Now he's found my notebook, I thought I had hidden it well! Obviously the CDC idiots found it and left it lying about for anyone to find. Oh, he's going to think I'm mad and go. 'See you, Sherlock. You're crazy' is what he's going to say when he heads out the door, showing everyone my notebook. And then I'll be the laughing stock of London._

"It's brilliant." John said, smiling at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked, certain he had heard wrong. John could not think that his notebook was brilliant. It didn't make sense. It didn't add up. His problem wasn't admired, it was a closely hidden secret that no one saw. It was not something '_brilliant.'_

"I said it's brilliant." John said, smiling at him. "They're words, right? And they make sentences." He glanced at Sherlock, seeing him looking about ready to pass out. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"You-you don't think I'm crazy?" He stuttered, taking his notebook. He flipped through the pages, reading what he had wrote from awhile back.

"Never!" John said, watching Sherlock's face sink into relief. "I think it's absolutely smashing." He smiled again reassuringly. "What does it say? I have no idea how you can read that, unless you've invented it." He laughed. "Knowing you, you probably have."

"It-it's a catalogue of my thoughts." Sherlock said quietly, sitting down on the couch. John sat down next to him also, listening to Sherlock.

"I haven't exactly _made_ the code, per se." Sherlock started. "It's this _thing_ I have." He took a deep breath. "Synesthesia is what it's called, I've grown up with it. I haven't told anyone, know one knows except Mycroft."

"Wow." John breathed out. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it was a big deal for you. I can just forget it, if you want. Do you want me to? I'll never speak of it again."

"No, no." Sherlock said, smiling slightly. "I feel relieved now that you know, it was getting harder for me to hide it as we kept living together."

"What? You were hiding this? Sherlock! You could've told me! I don't want you to have to hide anything from me!"

"I know, I know, John." Sherlock said, looking out the window. "It's just that- I thought you would think I was crazy. That I was mad, and that you would leave. I knew I was being irrational, but it wasn't something people had ever _praised_ me for."

"I will never leave you." John said firmly, looking Sherlock in the eye. "No matter what."

Sherlock smiled, relied spreading through him as he stared back at John. "I know." He whispered, knowing he still had to finish this.

"It's different for people," Sherlock said, feeling John's silent support radiating out of him. "The letters aren't all the same colors, the thoughts different. It's rare, my case at least. My colors I _see_, while most people feel them. I didn't know this when I was little, I assumed everyone saw them. I would get in trouble for insisting that someone's name was a color, or that a word was a certain sound." He smoothed his hand over his book, finding the familiar touch comforting.

"I didn't tell anyone after I knew no one else could see the colors. I didn't need a reason to be put in a lab and tested like an experiment, and I didn't need pity either. I kept quiet, using it to my advantage in learning and in my cases. I was able to think quicker, faster, better."

John sat there silently, wanting to take away the pain he saw on Sherlock's face, to just make it disappear.

"I would yell at the walls, you know." Sherlock said, smiling tightly. "I'd go from my words to colors, not noticing or caring. It was no different to me, that had anyone told me that I was doing it, I wouldn't have believed them. It was often, my brain functioned that way. I learned that I could write and read quicker if I wrote my way." He said, looking at John.

"You're right. They're words. Each of them are different in shape and color, depending on the word. They come together to form rough sentence structures. It helps me read quicker, and it also means no one else can. It's my stereotypical 'diary', as people call it. I write my thoughts down, you know how much I hate emotions that always get in the way.

"And no one can read them. People who aren't idiots, such as you, can figure out that they are sentences, but not what they say. I've gone through my life like this. And will continue it like so. This is my life living with Synesthesia."

"Sherlock," John said. "You should know that this is truly astounding. And I'm sorry it has hurt you, and I want to go back and find you and tell you how amazing this is. And you should really know that it's absolutely breathtaking and amazingly _you_, because you're perfect as yourself."

"So you keep trying to tell me." Sherlock said with a faint smile, looking back at John.

"Well you better believe it. Because it is and I'm not budging from that."

Sherlock smiled at John being defiant next to him, his eyes sweet and voice solid, just like he was supposed to be.

"Do want to know what color your name is?"

"I have a color?" John asked, not expecting that.

"Of course, everyone does." Sherlock said, feeling happy now that he had gotten it out of the way. Happy he could start living normally now, being able to have his words and colors interchangeable again.

"Sure." John said. "What color am I?"

"Maroon." Sherlock said, smiling at John. John smiled back, realizing how much this meant to Sherlock. Every time Sherlock said his name, that color appeared for him, no matter when or where. How many times a day did he say his name? How many times did he see maroon each day?

"What color is yours?" John asked, wanting to think of that color every time he heard Sherlock's name. Every time he saw him. Every time he said his name. Every time he felt him.

Sherlock smiled. "Blue of course, the color of my scarf."


End file.
